manthralled: “Don’t fight it,” you cooed, “I’ve got you.” B
manthralled: “Don’t fight it,” you cooed, “I’ve got you.” Beneath you, the boy struggled. Not against you - that was a fight he couldn’t hope to win - but against himself. “W-why?” he struggled to speak, caught somewhere between overwhelming pleasure and fear. You held him down, unloading shot after shot of seed into his fluttering hole. By the time you were done, you’d have deposited almost a whole gallon of smelly spunk. It was twenty minutes of absolute carnal bliss. “I want a baby,” you whispered tenderly, tweaking his nipples, “If you’re really good, maybe we’ll have more than one.” The pheromones were begging to re-write his pleasure centers as the rest of his resistance gave way. You’d fill him like this once a week to ensure a healthy pregnancy, and once a day you’d shoot a smaller load down his throat. In this cum-addled, bow-legged state, he’d love every moment of it. “Start thinking of baby names,” you teased his neck with a kiss, “I’ll take care of the rest.” Goals -- source link